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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653797">You’re No Prize Either</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/amutemockingjay/pseuds/Smol_Lydia'>Smol_Lydia (amutemockingjay)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown &amp; King, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Hunger Games AU, I make the rules for canon in this house, So this is gonna be gritty, canon divergent a bit, i love my dumb AUs, spoilers sort of for ballad of songbirds and snakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:06:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653797</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/amutemockingjay/pseuds/Smol_Lydia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A mayor’s daughter. A rogue victor. A pining boy. In District 12, 55 years after Lucy Gray Baird’s Games, one Lydia Deetz is reaped into the arena, but she has more to contend with than merely staying alive. A Beetlebabes Hunger Games AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Y’all I have had so much fun crafting this, and after reading The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes in 24 hours and listening to Maiah Wynne’s song covers I knew I had to write this. Shout out to all the bats in the attic for encouraging me forth y’all the best.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The morning of the reaping, Lydia Deetz wore black. It was the first reaping without her mother, without her reassurance to make it through the day, without her songs from her people, the Covey. A reminder, as always, that although Lydia lived in town, she carried the legacy of her mother, and her mother’s mother. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sat in front of her mirror, brushing her short dark hair, humming a song her mother used to sing to her when she was sick. Something about meadows. Reaching into her small jewelry box, she pulled out the only item of value: a silver pendant that belonged to Emily Deetz. It was engraved with a rose, a reminder of what her grandmother had been through, though Lydia had never gotten the full story. Still, having a little piece of her mother made her feel safer somehow. There was little chance of safety on Reaping Day, but given that she was the mayor’s daughter, she was safer than most. Unlike many of the desperate citizens of District 12, she didn’t need to take out tesserae. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lydia! I picked out the perfect dress for you! Lydia?” There was a knock at her bedroom door, the sound of her stepmother’s voice grating on Lydia’s ears. She still hadn’t forgiven her father for remarrying eight months after Emily’s death. That didn’t stop either him or Delia, her step mother, from trying to smooth things over. As if she could be bought or won so easily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia opened the door, staring at Delia. The red-haired woman held a yellow frilly dress out, and Lydia wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’m already dressed,” she said. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia frowned. “Lydia we’ve talked about this public sad sadness stuff. It’s not becoming to a mayor’s daughter, especially not on Reaping Day.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe the Mayor should come and tell me himself.” Lydia made a motion to close the door, but Delia put her shoe in between the frame and the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know he can’t do that, Lydia. He has to track down Mr. Shoggoth before the ceremony begins.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia smirked. “Did the Victor go rogue again?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lawrence “Beetlejuice” Shoggoth was the only living Victor the District had, having won his Games ten years previous at fifteen. He was, to put it politely, a drunk. Lydia had seen him at the Hob, tossing money at anyone selling white liquor, taking a pretty girl or two for a dance around the dilapidated warehouse turned black market. And well— her cheeks flushed at the memory of the disheveled victor in a moment that the constantly inebriated man likely didn’t recall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your father is doing his best,” Delia said. “All things considered.” She put the yellow dress into Lydia’s hands. “Get dressed, please and be ready to leave in half an hour. You don’t want to let your father down.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia glowered at the yellow confection. “It would be a shame if we all let each other down,” she responded, her tone dripping with sarcasm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia pretended not to hear her, a skill that she had put to use often since moving in to the mayor’s small house on the edge of District 12’s shambles of a main square. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia didn’t feel bad about slamming her bedroom door, Delia moving her foot out of harms way quickly. Tossing the yellow dress onto her bed she crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at her reflection in the mirror. At sixteen she was small for her age. Even though she had more access to food than most of the kids growing up in the District, she still didn’t have quite enough to grow properly, which showed in her short stature and thin frame. The kids in the Seam were much worse off, so she didn’t dare complain. Her mother had come from the Seam, like her grandmother before. A classic tale of the pauper falling for the prince, though this time said prince managed to whisk away the beggar girl from near starvation. Lydia didn’t think her father was much of a prize to be won, but in the early years her mother seemed happy enough. Before she started singing of being caged. Before she got sick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tears pricked at her eyes, a lump forming in her throat. She wiped at her eyes. She wouldn’t cry, not now. Squaring her shoulders, she opened one of the drawers on her vanity, digging out a small pot of rouge that had belonged to her mother. Make-up wasn’t easy to access, even as a mayor’s daughter, and she used a small amount on her cheeks and lips, giving her pale skin a bit of color. That was the only concession she’d give to beauty today, not that hideous yellow dress. Leaving the offensive garment on her bed, she opened the sash to her window, climbing with ease. Her bedroom was on the first floor and it wasn’t the first time, nor the last, that she’d leave the house this way. A small jump to the ground below, her hands on the dirt to stabilize her fall. This time, she felt a sharp sensation of pain down her left shin; sure enough, there was a tear in her black tights, the skin broken. Dusting her palms off on her skirt, she bit her lower lip, waiting for the moment of pain to pass. The one lesson she had taken to heart from her father was to never show pain in public. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the square anyone under the age of eighteen was being herded to a roped off area near the Hall of Justice. Lydia checked in with the Peacekeepers as she was supposed to; the stone faced officials took her name, age, and pinprick of her blood to track her. Ushered into the area with her classmates, Lydia took stock of the teens in her age group. She didn’t have many friends, keeping to herself as the strange and unusual girl she was. Claire Brewster, the candy makers’ daughter, gave Lydia a deep glare. Her blonde hair was styled in hideous ringlet curls, and she wore an expensive pink dress. Lydia wrinkles her nose in disgust— there was no love lost between the two girls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you supposed to wear the tacky clothes of your garbage people?” Claire hissed in Lydia’s direction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She never hesitated to try to remind Lydia that the Covey were outsiders, not District people, though those of the Covey had intermarried with the people of the Seam, like Lydia’s mother, and her grandmother, though no one seemed to know who her grandfather was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia formed a fist, and took a breath. She couldn’t start a fight here of all places. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such a pity your father couldn’t buy you class, Claire, the way he tries to buy everyone and everything else,” she snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of microphone feedback drowned out whatever stupid response Claire gave and Lydia dragged her attention to the stage, where her father sat in a stiff backed wooden chair next to Beetlejuice, who was already blitzed. Charles Deetz looked pained, and despite the anger that had existed between father and daughter recently Lydia knew that he hated Reaping Day. The bowls with the slips of paper were waiting to be plucked and Lydia felt nauseous just looking at them. She tuned out the reading of the Treaty of Treason, well aware that she wouldn’t be able to focus until she felt the sweet-awful relief of knowing she wasn’t picked to kill and be killed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As always, we’ll go with ladies first,” Charles said, digging in the glass bowl. Gripping a slip of paper, Lydia felt her palms sweat, her breath hitched. It was only when she saw her father’s face go stark white, his normally unflappable business demeanor stumble a little, that she felt her whole body go ice cold. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lydia Deetz,” he said into the microphone, and her whole world shattered. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <span>There was a hushed gasp through the crowd, and Lydia felt her pulse thrumming rapidly. Her knees weak, she smoothed down the front of her dress. The crowd parted for her, and she took her slow steps to the stage, digging her nails into the palms of her hands to keep her conscious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Summoning a courage she didn’t think she had, she clambered onto the makeshift stage. The Hunger Games, grotesque as they were, required a certain showmanship. Looking out to the rest of the District she gave the audience a small curtesy. She couldn’t look her father in the eye, afraid she would lose all her composure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charles Deetz cleared his throat. “And now, for the boys.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did she imagine it, or was his voice thick with tears? And was Beetlejuice, the inebriated Victor, leering at her? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vincent Prince,” Charles read the name from a slip of paper and Lydia had to suppress a groan. Vince, as he was known, was in her year in school, the final year before students were assigned to work in the mines. Even so, Lydia wasn’t sure she had ever seen him crack a smile. A dark cloud hung over his brow in every moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The seventeen year old stumbled up to the stage, his stick like limbs almost too long, dark bangs hanging in his shadowed eyes. Lydia extended her hand to him, as was custom, and the boy took it, his grip limp and his cheeks flushed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While Lydia looked her district partner in the eye, she couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t much competition, and hated herself for the thought. As she was herded into the Justice Building by grim-faced Peacekeepers she couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the last time she would see District 12. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have three minutes.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A Peacekeeper ushered Charles and Delia Deetz into the ornate room where Lydia was kept under guard. Already, Delia was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, near hysterical. In other circumstances, Lydia would have rolled her eyes at her over dramatic stepmother, but given everything she allowed herself to be swept up in a hug by the redhead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia smelled like vanilla extract, the closest one could get perfume in District 12 and Lydia buried her face in Delia’s shoulder. Her throat felt swollen, tears pricked and hot at the corners of her eyes. She refused to let them spill over, and the strain of holding back made her temples throb. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After twenty seconds, Delia released her, and Lydia took the moment to face her father. Charles cleared his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lydia….” The way he said her name betrayed his emotion, and he took a breath, composing himself again. “There’s something you need to know, about your mother’s people.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia knitted her brows together. “What do the Covey have to do with this?” She only had bits of pieces of knowledge from her mother. The bright colors, the songs, the dialect she used to sing Lydia to sleep with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your grandmother was a Victor.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia blinked, stunned. “She was?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charles nodded. “Her name was Lucy Gray Baird. There’s almost no record of her Games, but she won.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia struggled to take in the information, her mind processing the words but not their full meaning. “What happened to her?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your mother never knew. She never met her mother; she was abandoned at birth. Her mother died in childbirth I suppose.” Charles placed his hands on Lydia’s shoulders. “I’m telling you now because you’re a fighter. It’s in your blood.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia bit her lip. “I don’t know if I can do it, Daddy. Kill someone, I mean.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If it will bring you home, you can,” he replied. He placed a soft kiss on her forehead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> It was the most affection she had seen from him in a long time and she choked back a sob, wrapping her arms around him. He didn’t bother to stem the flow of tears on his end, his shoulders shaking with sobs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s time,” the Peacekeeper said, and Lydia felt her heart drop down to her shoes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love you, sweetheart,” her father said. Delia broke in, “We love you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I….” Everything she wanted to say froze on her lips. There was not enough time; there never would be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She never got to verbalize any thought as the Peacekeeper pushed her family out of the room, the door slamming with a frightening bang. That was enough to break her down a little, the tears beginning to flow finally. Nose stuffed and cheeks red and gasping for breath after several minutes of sobbing in a room with a lone Peacekeeper guard. She felt so small, vulnerable, and alone. She knew she wouldn’t be coming home in anything other than a plain wooden coffin. There were tributes twice the size of her who would hunt her for sport. As despair threatened to choke her completely a second Peacekeeper arrived to take her to the train station in one of their armored vans, like the prisoner she was. There were no cameras at the station which was fine by her, no one needed to see her with tear tracks down her face, the edge of her dress wet from trying to wipe away as much evidence as possible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vince hadn’t said anything to her for the whole ride, which she was fine with. She knew she could get in trouble with fighting with fellow tributes before the Games, and she didn’t trust herself not to deck him if he so much looked at her. She wanted nothing more than to rest her aching head somewhere soft and cry herself to sleep away from any prying eyes. When she boarded the train that would take her to the Capitol, though, she knew that wasn’t an option. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their mentor, Beetlejuice, sat in the main car, his feet on a dark wood table, scuffing the polished surface. He took a deep pull from a hip flask, a cigarette dangling between two fingers. His eyes lit up when he took in the sight of Lydia, who crossed her arms over her chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lydia Deetz,” his words slurring a little. “Miss me, babes?” </span>
</p><p>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>She has, in fact, gotten more than she bargained for in her mentor.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey y'all--</p><p>Thank you so much for the wonderful feedback (I will reply to individual comments I promise) and your patience as I update. My updates can be a bit slow bc I got Covid in March and have been dealing with a gnarly case of post viral fatigue ever since. This story is constantly on my mind but I can often only write one paragraph at a time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and tell me what you think!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lydia crossed her arms over her chest, her cheeks flushing pink. So he did remember that night, where he had danced with her, and the drunken fumbling in the darkened alley afterward. Still, she wouldn’t given him the satisfaction of saying as much in front of Vince or the Peacekeepers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know what you’re referring to,” she said smoothly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Zat so?” He struggled to stand and she turned on her heel, ready to find her quarters. She couldn’t let her emotions, so raw and ragged, surface. If she did, she wasn’t sure what she would do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She only made it as far as the hallway between cars when Beetlejuice grabbed her and spun her around to face him. Lydia cursed the plush carpeting that had muffled his footfalls; the space was so narrow that she found herself pressed up against the wall. With a sliding door separating her from Vince, Lydia realized she and the inebriated mentor were completely alone, something he must have calculated, given his feral grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Need a reminder?” He murmured into her ear and she hated herself for the way that her knees buckled a little at his breath on her neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she snapped, trying not to let her voice waver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled darkly, his filthy fingers tracing her jaw, down to her collar and over the top of her dress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beetlejuice, don’t think I won’t knock your lights out,” she said, trembling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such big talk from such a small girl,” he replied, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her to him. She could feel his hardness pressing against her and the sensation caused heat to pool in her core. “Last I checked you didn’t mind so much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last time I was half dizzy with white liquor and thought you were someone else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a bad liar, babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt the tips of her ears grow hot at his accusation, and just as she was ready to storm off he pressed his lips against hers in a passionate kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scent of alcohol on his breath was strong, but even so, she felt herself begin to melt at the roughness of his kiss. She made a small mew of pleasure, her hands running through his messy hair. Damn it all, he was good at this, and she was needy, desperate to escape the tumult she felt in her heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He began to press small kisses along her jaw, dipping down to her neck. As his teeth caught her earlobe she gasped with shock and wanting. Her heart pounding and her breath coming in short pants, she ached between her legs. Sshe wanted him to touch her, to do filthy things to her in one of the sleeping berths. And yet, the rawness of her desire caught her off guard. Beetlejuice was disgusting, and known in the District as a drunk and a vagabond. There was a certain appeal to that as the mayor’s daughter, of course. But what Lydia hasn’t told anyone is that the drunken kiss she had shared with him back at the Hob  was her first ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer beautiful,” he mumbled, and the compliment caught her off guard. He wasn’t supposed to say anything remotely nice to her. This was supposed to impersonal, a last romp before she was headed to slaughter. She put her hands on his chest and shoved him away, the corners of her eyes stinging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she choked out the word with difficulty. Her throat felt swollen and scratchy, the way it always did before she would cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the matter, babes?” He flicked the edge of her skirt, careless. “Don’t tell me yer backing out now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” She bit her lower lip, sweating building under her arms. If she didn’t run away right now, she would break, and he couldn’t see her weak. She took off towards the sleeping berths, opening the sliding panel doors to the secluded cabins, praying he didn’t follow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curling up into a ball, she trembled with the force of holding back her sobs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Babes?” There was a rapping at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go away,” she snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that’s what yer want,” he replied. She heard a rough edge in his voice, almost a tinge of sadness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t respond, biting the pillow in an effort not to break down. Eventually she heard the patter of his footsteps down the hallway. That’s when the dam broke, hot tears pouring down her cheeks. Lydia felt her chest would crack from the intensity of the pain and fear within her, a gale force storm. Nose dripping and throat swollen she tried to calm her breath, her stomach lurching. She tried to sense her mother’s presence the way she always did when she felt alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mama, I could use some help here,” she murmured. Sometimes, Lydia felt as though she could feel something— a spark, a presence, of Emily. Tonight, she felt nothing. “I don’t know if I can do this.” The words were a plea that she knew would fall on deaf ears. “I’m so scared.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wiping her face on the silky eiderdown she took a few deep breaths. She could only break down in privacy, miles away from the Capitol. The second the train pulled into the station she couldn’t show a single moment of weakness. Not if she wanted sponsors, and coming from the lowliest district she needed all the help she could get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes felt swollen from the ferocity of her tears, and she wrapped herself up in the comforter. Her temples throbbing, she let the gentle swaying of the train rock her to sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia woke at first light, the sun streaming through the windows of the sleeping car. For a brief moment she forgot the events of the past twenty-four hours, and blinked, forgetting where she was. The truth hit her like a punch in the stomach and she took a few deep breaths to keep the bile from coming up. There were clothes in the dresser opposite the bunks and she ticked through them, finding a black shirt and skirt to her taste. She would wear black for as long as she could get away with, as her own form of protest. Dressed for her own funeral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling on stockings and her boots she ran a brush through her short dark hair so quickly electric sparks cracked with each stroke. Sweet scents from the dining car wafted in her direction and her stomach growled. At least she never had to worry about an empty belly before the Games began. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vince was already at the table, pouring himself a cup of tea. Beetlejuice sat opposite, absentmindedly picking a roll. He looked up when Lydia entered the room, and she hated the way she blushed at his glance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Beetlejuice drawled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Folding her arms over her chest, she smirked. “I’m glad you’re so thrilled to see me”, she snapped back, taking the seat next to Vince. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The food in front of her felt like too much, a gluttonous spread that not even a Mayor’s daughter could comprehend. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from inhaling everything in sight. Pressing her lips together in a tight line, Lydia filled her plate with a selection of pastries and buttered rolls. There was coffee in a silver pot, with fresh cream and a pile of sugar cubes. She rarely got to sip her father’s coffee, and there was never sugar or cream. The additions were welcome, cutting the bitter edge off the hot drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you sleep well?” Lydia asked Vince, making a point to ignore Beetlejuice across from her. She still didn’t know how to feel about their brief encounter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As much as I could,” he replied in his usual morose way. “Given the circumstances.” Lydia was reminded of why she didn’t partner with Vince for activities at school— he talked there was a permanent cloud overhead. “That’s a nice outfit,” he said, glancing at her. “You, um, look very pretty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave Vince a sugar-sweet smile. “Thank you,” she replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> A quick glance in Beetlejuice’s direction showed the mentor glowering, sending a glare towards the male tribute. Lydia decided to push the mentor closer to the edge. Putting down her coffee cup down, she reached over and squeezed Vince’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very sweet to say so,” she trilled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her classmate flushed, and Beetlejuice pushed his seat back, skulking from the table, muttering under his breath. As soon as the drunk disappeared, Lydia polished off her pastries with relish. They were far richer than even the few pastries offered at the District 12 bakery, and between the sugar and coffee she could feel herself buzzing with energy. It was then that the train came to a sudden stop, and she furrowed her brow, confused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuel stop,” the Capitol attendant clearing the breakfast dishes said in response to her quizzical look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rush from the coffee was overwhelming, and she began to feel dizzy, her heart beating far too rapidly. “Am I able to get some air?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly,” he replied, “As long as there’s a Peacekeeper nearby.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mumbling her goodbyes to Vince she stumbled towards the door that lead to the world beyond the train. Salty air greeted her, and as she took in the bright sunlight she realized they must have stopped somewhere in District Four. She gave a brief nod to the Peacekeeper watching her, stone faced. What she wouldn’t give to take off and disappear, to taste freedom. But she knew that she would never make it without being shot, her family back home punished. She hung her head. She couldn’t. When Lydia glanced up again, she realized she wasn’t alone. Beetlejuice stood next to her, pulling a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket and lighting it. He looked haggard, unshaven, his hair in a rumple. But it was the sadness in his eyes that softened her. Lydia knew that kind of sadness all too well, and she wondered who he had lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blew a ring of smoke. “What do you want?” He asked gruffly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know how to articulate the conflicting feelings that twisted in her stomach and she wasn’t one of many words anyway. “A smoke,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled his eyes. “And what are you gonna give me in return?” His gaze dropped down to her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She crossed her arms. “You’re disgusting.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice chuckled at that. “Yer not wrong. Part of my charm, babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His grin was feral. “You seemed to like it, till you ran like a stuck pig.” He dangled the cigarette in front of her, and when she reached for it, he pulled back. “Trade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pouted. “Fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A kiss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicked towards the Peacekeeper. “In front of—?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice shrugged. “He doesn’t care.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing on the tips of her toes, she pressed a quick kiss to his stubbled cheek, grabbing the cigarette out of his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You cheated!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took a deep inhale, the tobacco burning her lungs. “A kiss is a kiss.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snatched the cigarette back. “Sneaky thing,” he muttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s gotta be rules against this anyhow. You’re what, 23? And I’m 17. A mentor pawing at his tribute.” She took another drag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never met a rule I didn’t want to break, babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could concede that. “Well, I suppose I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually—“ He looked almost sheepish. “Never got attached to my other tributes.” He scratched the back of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, she found herself blushing, her heart doing a little backflip in her chest. “Yeah?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He took the cigarette back, flicked some ash. “You know, having to watch kids from your hometown get slaughtered over and over I—never mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinked, taking in his words. She had never considered how horrible it must be for him, dragged out year after year to watch kids die and know there was nothing he could do to stop it. No wonder he was constantly inebriated. “And yet,” she mumbled, the truth hitting her. He was attached to her. She swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crushed the cigarette under the heel of his shoe. The Peacekeeper was motioning for them to get back on the train. Beetlejuice gave her a playful bop on the nose with his index finger. “Don’t let it go to yer head, babes,” he said, climbing back onto the train. </span>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia sat near the window, watching the landscapes of various districts go by, wide eyed. She had never seen the country, and she was fascinated by the beauty that surrounded her. She knew that it would be the first and last time: there was no way she would be making a return trip in anything other than a plain pine coffin. Lydia was numb to that sobering reality; she didn’t dare let herself feel the full force of the terror that lurked in the back of her mind. Drumming her fingers against the arm of the plush chair she sat in, she tried desperately to turn her thoughts to something, anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other side of the room, Vince slumped in his chair, in a depressed world all his own. And Beetlejuice was nowhere to be found. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia felt the tips of her ears grow hot at the thought of her mentor, sparks in the pit of her stomach. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of him. Her reaction to him was stupid. She didn’t want him. She couldn’t afford to want him. And yet, she wondered what it would be like if she made it home. He would wrap her in his arms, surely. Once out of sight of the cameras, kiss her. Perhaps she would visit him at his home in the Victors Village. Maybe even share his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now she knew she was bright red at the thought, heat between her thighs. She pinched herself to snap out of it. The delusions of a girl on the way to her death. Nothing more, and they would stay delusions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just then the entire car flooded with darkness and Lydia realized the car was passing through the tunnel that lead to the heart of the Capitol. The tunnel had been built during the war to separate the Capitol from the Districts; a key factor in the winning of the war that led to these very Games. Lydia gripped the edge of her chair, her heart in her throat now for very different reasons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had reached the Capitol. There was no turning back now. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Remake, Redo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In the Capitol, there are more secrets than answers for Lydia as she tries to uncover her grandmother's past.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is slightly shorter just because of the twist at the end....but I hope you enjoy regardless. &lt;3 &lt;3 I also couldn't resist using Tina in this capacity.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Capitol train station was vast, with a glass ceiling that cast vaguely threatening shadows with the shifting sunlight. There were crowds near the platform, desperate to get a glance at the tributes. Lydia swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat— it sickened her how disposable her life truly was. Mere entertainment to these denizens in their outlandish fashion, the very picture of excess and consumption. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A woman with green skin and red hair commanded the way, the only one to board to train once the Peacekeepers opened the doors. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t drag yourself all the way out to 12 this time, Tina,” Beetlejuice sneered at the Capitol woman. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I had responsibilities, not that you would know much about that,” she snapped back at the mentor in a clipped accent. Sidestepping him, she pressed two light kisses to Lydia’s cheeks in the fashion Lydia guessed was common in the Capitol. “I am Miss Argentina, and I will be your chaperone for your remaining time in the Capitol.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miss Argentina radiated a sort of strange beauty by the bizarre Capitol standards. Lydia tried not to feel as though her skin were crawling. Tina, as Beetlejuice called her, seemed not to notice, greeting Vince in the same way she introduced herself to Lydia. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will be taking you both to the Remake Center, and from there, the apartments where you will be staying for the duration of your time here.” She led a commanding charge through the crowds of people at the station, ushering them all into the back of a black car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Remake Center was underground, beneath the stables that held the horses that would carry tributes in chariots during the District parade later that evening. Lydia found herself assaulted by three Capitol cronies, showered, lotioned and polished within an inch of her life. An attendant removed her body hair with wax strips; she bit her lip to keep from crying out at the sting. She got the sense that styling the District 12 tributes was the least desirable job, given the way the attendants’ upper lip curled in disgust any time they had to touch Lydia’s body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After very narrowly escaping having her hair lengthened and dyed, Lydia was dried off, and her clothes were handed back to her, deposited into a side room: an afterthought of a space for an afterthought of a girl. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sat on atop a narrow metal table, tapping her fingers on her thigh in a nervous tic. Her palms were sweaty no matter how many times she tried to discreetly wipe them on her black skirt. When the door to the room opened Lydia found herself face to face with the oddest looking woman she had ever laid on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something distinctly feline about the woman in front of her, from her flattened nose to the sharp cheekbones and glowing green eyes. Her nails were long, almost like claws, as she extended her hand to shake Lydia’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Tigris; I will be your stylist for the Games.” Even Tigris’ voice was reminiscent of her feline qualities, a low deep rumble that seemed to emanate from her chest more than her throat. Lydia couldn’t tell if Tigris had altered her features to draw attention to her feline name, or given herself a cat-like name to suit her features. Either way, the entire effect left Lydia feeling off-kilter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Lydia Deetz,” she said, returning the handshake with caution. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tigris pulled a tape measure out from the pockets of her tight, fur covered leggings. Lydia obliged with the necessary movements as the stylist took her measurements, jotting them down into a notebook. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Coal miners again? You must not enjoy being assigned to our district,” Lydia said lightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I chose 12,” Tigris replied, and Lydia wrinkled her brows in confusion. Strange, that very few stylists would be clamoring for such an assignment. “And I’d rather not create something so….revealing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was new, as well. Usually the tributes from 12 were put into coal mining get-ups that left little to the imagination in an effort to win over the citizens to the oft-forgotten district. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t have much to show off anyhow,” Lydia replied. It was true, she was small of frame, wispy and petite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm. You are fifteen, yes? Still a girl.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seventeen. I’m small for my age.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Well, you certainly deserve better than that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this, Lydia gave Tigris a small smile. “I’m glad someone thinks so.” She paused. “I wonder if they made my grandmother wear a coal miner’s outfit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was a tribute?” Tigris pocketed the tape measure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A victor. Lucy Gray Baird. I don’t know much about her, though. She died before I was born, and my mother is dead now as well.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Lydia hadn’t been watching carefully it would have escaped her notice: the color drained from Tigris’ face, and there was a brief expression she could not read on the older woman, only to be replaced by a generic expression of sympathy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” Tigris murmured. “I lost my mother as well, in the war.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you know her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucy Gray. You had the most peculiar look on your face when I said her name.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tigris would not meet Lydia’s inquisitive gaze. “In a way,” she admitted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia’s mind spun with questions. She desperately wanted to know what her grandmother had been like, who the Covey were. She grew up with half remembered songs from her mother, and a native tongue that she spoke well as a toddler but now knew little of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you know her? What was she like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My brother mentored her during her Games.” Tigris pressed her thin lips into a tight line. “Never mind. It was so long ago, and I have said too much already.” With not so much as a goodbye, the stylist departed, murmuring something about getting the costumes ready. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia wrinkled her nose, puzzled. Why was her grandmother’s winning such a secret? First her father, now her stylist. What, exactly, had happened to Lucy Gray Baird?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>President Snow rarely had a moment to himself. It was to be expected, of course, given his position, but that didn’t negate how tiresome it was. So he was surprised when the phone in his private study rang; his aides knew better than to bother him when he retreated into the walnut paneled room. His picked up the phone, biting back the annoyance he felt rise to the surface. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Coryo?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinked. His cousin Tigris didn’t call often; though the pair had been close in childhood but over the past few years had drifted apart, given the circumstances. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tigris.” He wondered what she could possibly want. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The girl from Twelve.” His shoulders tightened at the mention of the coal district. Surely she knew better than to bring back that part of his past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What of her?” He replied gruffly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She claims her grandmother was a Victor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” His response was sharp, laced with malice. He had pushed aside those memories for so long they felt as though they belonged to someone other than him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She told me her grandmother was Lucy Gray Baird.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the sound of her name his stomach twisted. How could--? Lucy Gray had died in the woods, he was sure of it. How could such a thing be possible?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A memory surfaced that he had tried to ignore. Lucy Gray’s lips on his; their bodies moving in synchronicity with desire and desperation. He had told no one of that moment they had shared together, and he convinced himself it meant nothing to him. She was nothing to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Coryo, did you…?” Tigris’s sentence remained unfinished, and though he was not normally prone to such rudeness, Snow hung up the phone without a response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reached into his desk drawer, pulling out the dossier on this year’s tributes that had been sent to him by the Head Gamemaker.  Shuffling the papers, he landed on the file for female tribute from District 12. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia Deetz. He peered at the photograph inclosed. A teenage girl scowling at the camera, wearing a black dress, and fingerless gloves, her dark hair cut into a short bob with bangs. She was all sharp edges and bones, like many of the scum from the poorer Districts. But those eyes-- green-hazel, flecked with bits of amber. Just like Lucy Gray’s. There was something else familiar about her, as he studied her profile, and when the truth dawned on him, it felt as though someone had thrown ice down his collar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nose. Lydia Deetz had the perfect aristocratic nose that had belonged to all the Snows. He had unintentionally sent his own granddaughter into the arena. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. On the Roof</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>She couldn't sleep after the tribute parade</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey y'all--</p><p>Thank you so much for all the love on this story. The OC Makenzie belongs to the lovely ImpossibleKat-- check out her fic Last Demon to Sing if you love POTO!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Her outfit wasn’t hideous— a small miracle if there ever was one. Tigris had chosen an abstract concept rather than the tired coal miners trope— taking inspiration from the headlamps the miners used instead. Lydia’s dress was an iridescent silver, with a square skirt filled out by petticoats. Small prisms of light were sewn into the pleats, and atop her dark waves was a diadem that projected light. Looking at her reflection in a small hand mirror provided by Tigris, Lydia felt almost pretty, a rarity for her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the odd exchange that afternoon, Tigris seemed to be acting as though nothing had transpired, and Lydia didn’t have enough energy to question it. She was still curious about her grandmother, but the one who could answer her questions— her mother— was gone anyhow. She bit her lower lip, grateful at least that her mother didn’t have to watch her die on national television. She wished her father didn’t have to, either, but the Hunger Games was required viewing, even more so for a Mayor. Lydia hoped that when her time came it would be quick, for his sake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The horses and chariots gathered underground in massive stables, the tributes from each District lined up. Lydia couldn’t help but be curious about the others; she hadn’t watched the Reaping on the train so this was her first glimpse at them. The Career tributes of Districts 1, 2 and 4 were too close to the front for her to see them, but directly in front of her stood the District 11 tributes. The girl was short and stocky, with thick leg muscles and warm brown eyes. She looked to be Lydia’s age or a bit younger, and held a protective arm around her District partner, who was definitely the youngest of the bunch. Small and vulnerable. Lydia shook her head. How anyone could justify sending a helpless twelve year old into violence was beyond her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Further along, she could just make out the female District 7 tribute in a willowy tree outfit. When she noticed Lydia watching her, she smiled, and Lydia felt her nerves ease a little. A friendly face, despite everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The District 12 chariot had coal black horses and off to the side Beetlejuice and Miss Argentina were deep in some sort of discussion— argument?— with him making drunken gestures. Lydia eyed the horses with trepidation; they were large animals, and she didn’t trust they wouldn’t crush her to death at the nearest opportunity. Beyond the stables the first strains of music began, and Vince climbed into the chariot first. His costume brought a little brightness to his ghostly pallor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready?” She asked him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As much as I can be,” he responded morosely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It didn’t do her any good to isolate him before the arena, or worse, make herself a target. She doubted Vince had it in him to murder anyone but the Hunger Games brought out the worst in people. Survival often meant making unthinkable choices, and she shuddered to consider what the Games would drive her to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The opening music began its notes and the first of the chariots entered the Capitol streets. Lydia forced herself to put on a smile, trying to shake off the dread of what was ahead of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then— they were out, the horses trotting, the crowds cheering. She knew this would be sponsors first glance at the tributes, and if she wanted any chance of getting a life saving gift she had to appear at the very least, desirable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she waved to people who would cheer on her death, put on a smile that would put Delia to shame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>District 12 never made much of a splash but their costumes were at least better than the coal miner nonsense. A few threw flowers and she caught them, pretending to be thrilled at the prospect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vince did none of the sort, and she nudged him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” she said.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see the point,” he said as the chariot made its way down the main thoroughfare and stopped in a circle with the others, so that President Snow could address the crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took all of Lydia’s self control not to shove him—he was completely useless but she wasn’t going to sink to a low level now, with so many eyes on her. Instead she tried to focus on Snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something about the white and grey haired President that always left her with cold chills. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why, however. Lydia wondered if her grandmother had gone through this exact ritual fifty years before. Paraded around like a prop, not a human being. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Covey had their own native tongue, Lydia knew that much. Her mother used to sing her lullabies in the Covey language, though now Lydia only remembered a few words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her chest ached with grief once again, and she pushed away tears. No one here could see her cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She must have blanked out completely because before she knew they were back in the stables. She tripped and stumbled getting out of the chariot; it was Beetlejuice who reached out to catch her. As soon as she was steady she pushed him away, hoping the redness on her face betrayed embarrassment rather than the lust that pounded at her wrists and throbbed in her core. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathe in, breathe out. She pushed the button for the elevator, not caring who followed. Much to her surprise, the girl from District 7, in her tree dress, got in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like your dress,” the girl offered with a toothy smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Lydia mumbled. “I like your….” In all honesty the Brown and green dress was far from flattering for anyone, even though the girl was pretty enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl laughed. “It’s okay; I’m well aware that this dress is ugly. I’m Makenzie, by the way.” She held out her hand for Lydia to shake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lydia Deetz,” Lydia replied in turn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the elevator stopped on the seventh floor she gave Lydia a sunny smile. “See you tomorrow!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, see ya.” Lydia was utterly alone as the elevator made the way to the penthouse apartment for tributes of District 12. In another world, maybe Makenzie and her could have been friends. But instead, they were set to die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the apartment, a spread of food was waiting, as was Vince, Beetlejuice, and Tina. Normally she would turn down such decadent food but now she felt sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not hungry,” she said upon being offered a plate, slamming the door to her bedroom to punctuate her sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She couldn’t sleep. All the silk pillowcases and feather eiderdowns couldn’t soothe the raw anxiety that grabbed her by the throat and threatened to choke her. She pushed the covers back, her bare feet hitting the plush carpeted floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no reason for her not to wander, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though she was dressed only in the black satin sleeping shorts and tank top that was in the wardrobe in her room, the summer air was thick and hot as she made her way to the roof. Maybe, finally, she could breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking down at the bright lights of the Capitol, she could make out so many people scurrying about, despite the late hour. Did they never sleep? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The drop below to the pavement was a long one, her palms itching. She had the wild desire to climb atop the ledge and throw herself to the street below. They couldn’t own her-- she would take her life on her own terms. She knew there was little hope that she could win the Games, so why even try?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer can’t jump.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rough, ragged voice interrupted her train of thought and Beetlejuice emerged from the shadows, the red ash of his cigarette washing his face in an otherworldly glow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” She crossed her arms over her chest. She suddenly felt far too exposed like this, in only flimsy nightwear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Force field.” He moved towards her in a few quick steps, and stuck his hand out over the ledge. There was a sharp zap, like electricity, and he yanked his hand back. “Can’t lose a Tribute before the Games, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scowled. “What are you doing up here, anyway?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Could ask you the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither could I. There’s a garden out here; better than being stuck in that cage of a room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A garden?” She perked up. Her mother had always loved flowers, and although Lydia did not inherit her green thumb, she used to love to watch her mother work in the soil, singing to the plants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can show you.” He held out his hand, and she took it with little hesitation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He led her to a space around the corner of the expansive roof. A glass greenhouse, alight with paper lanterns that gave a soft, romantic glow to the dozen of plant species that inhabited the space. The smell was heavenly, and she couldn’t help but smile as she took off towards the half open door. Small wind chimes tinkled, the silver pieces hanging from the ceiling. Between all the flora and fauna there was a small space with a soft blue blanket and a couple of velvet pillows on the ground, the perfect nook for hiding from everyone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia immediately took a seat on the ground, reaching out to a patch of bluebells and forget-me-nots that lined the walls. “These were my mother’s favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice followed her into the space, and plucked a white gardenia off of a bush, tucking it behind Lydia’s ear. “These are mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had a hard time believing that he linked anything pretty, but the fact that he had a favorite flower was endearing, in a way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They smell good,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno if I’m allowed to call yer pretty without yer runnin’ out on me again, but white suits yer, against yer hair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bit her lower lip, a warmth building in the pit of her stomach and up into her chest. “It’s allowed,” she mumbled. “This time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a little manuerving, he sat down next to her, and she wrinkled her nose. “You smell terrible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t, not really. More like the mossy forest floor back home, mixed with dead leaves and the sharp scent of white liquor and tobacco. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well forgive me if I ain’t smellin’ like roses from their ridiculous showers.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She giggled. “Too many buttons in there; I think I steamed myself into the next century. How anyone can live like that is beyond me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In District 12, the Mayor’s house had running water so she was used to baths, but if she wasn’t careful they’d run out of hot water. Her mother bought violet soap from the apothecary in the Seam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t heard the worst of it,” he muttered, stubbing out his cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cool breeze crossed the space they were in and she shivered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer cold, babes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged. “A little.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come ‘ere.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held out his arms and after a moment of hesitation she allowed herself to be held. He was warm, his heart beating quickly as she leaned her head against his chest. As grimy and disgusting he was, there was a sense of safety being held close like this. His chin stubble tickled the skin of her cheek and she felt her cheeks flush with heat as she remembered what it felt like to be kissed by him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a Victor he could have his pick of any of the women in the District. Likely he had, with the stream of hungry girls coming in and out of his home in the Victors’ Village. He was an incorrigible horndog, and she had figured he mistook her for someone else that night in the Hob. The kiss on the train proved otherwise, and yet she couldn't understand why  he wanted her. She was petite and too thin and far too morbid, were she to believe Delia’s assertions as to why she didn’t have any friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pressed a soft, quick kiss to the delicate skin behind her ear, and she shivered for an entirely different reason now, goosebumps appearing on her forearms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer just so kissable,” he said. Another, a little lower, on her neck now. His breath was warm against her skin and she let out a small sigh. Where his lips had made contact with her sparked in the best possible way, and she longed for more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beej,” she murmured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” His hands were on her waist, slowly climbing north to cup her breasts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took that as the invitation it was, his hands running along the delicate curves of her body as his kisses grew more heated, with love bites blooming under the pale pallor of her skin. Dizzy with desire and out of breath she turned around so that she was straddling him, feeling the hardness of his length against the slippery fabric of her sleeping shorts. His hands fiddled with the hem of her tank top, dusting along the edge of her hip bones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded and in one smooth motion he pulled the soft fabric over her head, reaching up to lavish kisses on the top half of her torso. She knew that this was all so sudden, that under normal circumstances she wouldn’t hop into such a compromising position so quickly. Yet there was nothing normal about having a little over a week to live-- she didn’t think she’d make it past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia if she was being honest with herself. So really, what did she have to lose, letting him have her on a rooftop garden? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his lips moved from her breasts to her hip bones, she took his hand and pressed against the dampness that had soaked to her shorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer sure?” He asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she replied, spreading her legs for him. If this was truly her last week alive, she wanted nothing more. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Training</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The morning after</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm not gonna lie it does strike me as funny that not only am I a great big slut but I'm able to write porn in RP but when it comes to my own fics I'm like "Uh....then they kissed." </p><p>Still, I have so much fun with this duo and I love it when he's soft for her.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She woke with the first streaks of sunlight pouring into the greenhouse, lighting the sky in rich cotton candy and orange hues. Her head was on Beetlejuice’s chest; he snored softly as she sat up in a panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She had planned to sneak back to her room long before first light, as if nothing had happened. And now here she was, her pale skin bruising from BJ’s mouth, her hair askew and smelling of sex. This wasn’t a good look--hell, was it even allowed? Could a mentor and a tribute become entangled in the way she and Beetlejuice had? She didn’t want to find out the consequences, and tried to disentangle herself from his embrace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Babes,” he mumbled, sleepily trying to wrap his arms around her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushed him away. “I gotta go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t go.” He had dark circles under his eyes and looked sweetly vulnerable half awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re fucked, Beej.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He licked his lips. “Yeah it was great.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes, but the flush that was spreading across her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m being serious,” she snapped. “We can’t get caught like this.” With a final push she disentangled herself from him, all long skinny limbs. “I better see you at breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slipped through the rooftop door, down the stairs and darted across the hallway to her room. The only figure currently up were the silent Avoxes, who were setting the table for breakfast, paying her no mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stepped into the bathroom to assess the damage. Sure enough, dark bruises bloomed on her neck where Beetlejuice had his mouth on her. She sighed, running her hand through her disaster hair and attempted to program the shower. At the very least she could wash away her sins like nothing had happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By some miracle she managed to get reasonably temperate water, completely with soap that smelled like some kind of exotic flower. As she stood under the spray she felt exhausted, in more ways than one. She had been hasty last night, in the heat of the moment and the specter of death that hung over her night and day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her thoughts were as muddy and dark—not to even begin with her feelings. She hadn’t expected she would lose her virginity in such a matter. And with him, of all people. Yet, there was something about him that she was drawn to, even before the Games. Back in the District she would have thought it would be a one time, that rogue kiss and a thousand what ifs. Now, she didn’t know how she felt about the rogue mentor. Surely, he didn’t care for her in any sort of way other than a piece of ass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scrubbed shampoo through her black bob, deep in thought. She was the only tribute he had ever been intimate with. That had to mean something, didn’t it? Rinsing the lather out, she shook her head. She was wistful thinking, and her stomach dropped as she realized that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> him to care for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia turned off the water and grabbed a fluffy cotton towel. There was no space in her heart to even consider the feelings that could stir. She refused. Using one of the ridiculous gadgets in the bathroom, in one moment her hair was de tangled, dried and hung by her face in soft waves. Digging through the dresser in her spacious bedroom she pulled out a black shirt and dark pants. The collar didn’t fully cover the hickeys but it was the best she could do, for now. Opening the door, she headed out in the dining room, not at all ready to face the day ahead. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“How did you sleep?” Vince asked Lydia as she took a sip of her coffee, which she promptly choked on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” she muttered between coughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you all right?” Vince furrowed his brows, looking at her with concern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the table, Beetlejuice was adding some white liquor—hair of the dog—to his own coffee and very pointedly avoiding Lydia’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tried to brush off the sting. Whatever his deal was, it didn’t matter. She had a full day of training ahead, her first glimpse of all the other tributes. That was enough to get her stomach doing backflips. The tension at the dining table was palpable, and Lydia pushed her chair back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m done. I’ll see you down there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she took off, her heart pounding. The elevator was deserted as she rode down to the training center, but she didn’t mind. In the gym itself, many of the other tributes were gathered. Lydia spotted the girl from the night before—god, it had felt like forever ago—and stood next to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl, Makenzie, gave her a small smile. Lydia wondered if maybe, just maybe, she had found an ally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allies were temporary in the arena, of course, either killed off or forced to turn on each other. She tried not to linger on that fact. Truth be told, though she normally had no problem just being in her own company, she had felt horribly lonely since her name had been drawn at the Reaping. As the last of the tributes straggled in—Vince among them—the trainer, an attractive dark-skinned woman with braids, began to lecture the tributes of the rules of the arena, pointing out that they should not neglect the survival skills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a lump in Lydia’s throat as it once again hit her with savage anxiety that this was all too real, that in less than a week she could be dead. Her breakfast was threatening to make a reappearance and she breathed slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth. Then, she turned to Makenzie. “Where do you want to start?” She asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to partner with me?” The teen looked uncertain of herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia nodded. “Unless you don’t want to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s fine. I just—I mean, my partner hadn’t been around much and I figured you would want to pair with yours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia shrugged her shoulders. Vince had headed off to the camoflauge station with his usual maudlin shuffle. In all honesty, she knew tying herself to Vince would make her look weak to predators, noticeably the Career pack that had already picked up combat weapons with ease. She didn’t point out as much, however. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where do you want to start?” She asked Makenzie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe fire starting?” The brunette suggested, her sweet eyes wide. “I know that’s important in the arena.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so the girls trekked to the empty station, where an instructor was thrilled to show them a variety of techniques using both matches and flint. At the first two girls were solely focused on the task but as they moved from station to station they began to loosen up a bit, sharing tidbits about their lives in the Districts. Makenzie, Lydia learned, came from a large family and she was the oldest. At sixteen she was already working in the lumber yards, and had a wicked axe throwing ability. Lydia couldn’t help but feel shame at her comfortable, if quiet upbringing, in comparison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re Covey,” she explained as they identified edible plants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?” Makenzie asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On my mother’s side, really. They were a traveling people, with their own customs, like her mother and her mother’s mother and so forth. They got rounded up in the war, I think, and left to settle in District 12 after, though they weren’t both there. They’re musicians, make their trade through song. At least, that’s what my grandmother did before she died.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh wow. Did you know her?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Lydia hesitated. Based on how Tigris reacted, maybe she shouldn’t mention what had happened to Lucy Gray Baird. “She died in childbirth having my mother. My mother was taken in by a family by the Seam, and neither of us have any idea who my grandfather was, or if he’s even still alive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Makenzie’s eyes widened. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s strange, not knowing most of your family. After my mother died, my dad remarried anyhow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia bit her lower lip. The grief didn’t threaten to swallow her whole the way it used to. Maybe because she knew that she was so close to the end of her own life, anyhow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They approached a tall obstacle course with various rope swings, balance beams and tall ledges to scramble over. Lydia took her place at the starting line, opposite a tribute from District 2. The tribute, a tall girl at least seventy pounds heavier than Lydia, stared at the slight girl with a scowl. Still, when the timer buzzed, Lydia jumped to life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things like this were her favorite. She was always a bit of a daredevil, ready to scale fences and even a shed roof back home. And in gym class she was the fastest rope climber and well versed on the old balance beam, turning tricks that would make her step mother tear her hair out with worry. Her slight frame was an advantage and she loved the thrill of it. In less than a minute she had cleared the entire course with ease, the District 2 tribute far behind. When she finally caught up to Lydia at the end of the course, the look she threw the sixteen year old was one of deep hatred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia felt her throat grow tight with fear. In her eagerness to show off, had she just painted a target on her back? </span>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Makenzie and Lydia paired up at lunch as the tributes were fed a variety of sandwiches and different fruits, a basket of bread with all the District types on each table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Makenzie lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to say this in front of everyone,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Panic gripped Lydia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Makenzie grinned. “Those hickeys on your neck. From Vince?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god no!” Lydia couldn’t help but laugh. Vince was about as attractive as a wet noodle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Guy’s got it bad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia wrinkled her nose. “Definitely not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some guy back home, then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could say that.” Damn it all she could feel herself blushing again, the pit of her stomach dropping as her mind replayed the evening she had spent with Beej. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Makenzie leaned her elbows on the table. “Spill.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s really nothing to tell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Makenzie rolled her eyes. “Bullshit. Are you in love with him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Lydia dropped her gaze. She knew that her blush was deepening. “No, nothing like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, if you say so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I swear!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think the lady doth protest too much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia forced herself to finish her food, picking at the salty seaweed bread from District 4. “Really. I don’t think he thinks of me like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Girl, a man doesn’t kiss someone like that if he’s not interested.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what makes you so sure?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Makenzie chewed, then swallowed. “My mama has these real tattered books under her bed she hides from my papa. Romances, passed down from her mama. I read them on the sly. Trust me—whoever he is, he wants you real bad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think it’s the wanting that's the problem,” Lydia replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that moment the lunch break ended and the tributes were ushered back to the floor, the conversation left hanging in the air like so many </span>
  <span>of her feelings that she dare not lay claim to. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>When she arrived back at the Penthouse, Beetlejuice and Miss Argentina sat a little too close for comfort on the curved plush couch; her with a glass of wine and him nursing his ever-present flask. Something about the scene made Lydia irrationally angry. Scowling, she stormed by them and slammed the door for extra measure, pacing the soft carpet in her room as she fumed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t come out for dinner, instead ordering a bunch of ridiculous dishes via the intercom in her room, brought to her in a feast of decadence and shame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shoved the food in her mouth as she cried, the salty tears mixing in with the rich pâté and soft breads. Why she was crying, she didn’t exactly know but once she started she couldn’t seem to stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a knock at her door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go away,” she snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna do that babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just his voice was enough to turn her stomach. Nauseous and over-full of both emotion and rich food, she stumbled to the bathroom to give it all up to the porcelain god. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally, she would never dream of doing such a thing. But tonight, the maelstrom of her emotions left her feeling both particularly vindictive and self destructive. It was Capitol food, anyhow. To engage in such an action at home with the rampant starvation would be reprehensible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was a mess of snot and tears and puke, the sour taste in her mouth and sweat at her temple. As she heaved she felt a hand on her back, rubbing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy there, babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wiped her mouth, turning to face him. Her empty stomach contracted painfully. “What are you doing in here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Making sure you don’t do anything stupid. Guess I was too late.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re one to talk,” she scoffed. “How many drinks have you had today?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too many.” He reached over and flushed the mess away. “Look, I’m not real great at this whole….crying thing. But let’s get yer cleaned up, best as I can manage.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine on my own; you don’t need to help me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabbed a small hand towel off the rack and wet it with cold water. “Yer not understanding me, babes. I’m not real good at it, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.” He dabbed at the dried tears on her face ineffectively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wanted to allow his tenderness so badly. But instead, the other part of her, the part full of bitterness and rage and pain took over. She pushed him away, stumbling to her feet. “I don’t see why you care.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned, wrapping his arm around her waist to steady her. “Yer really don’t get it, do ya, Lyds?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed, running his hand through his messy brown hair. “I—never mind. Let’s at least get ya to bed with some water.” In one smooth motion he scooped her up, carrying her into the bedroom and placing her onto the bed as gently as he could manage. Ordering water from the same intercom, he turned towards the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia, shivering as she wrapped herself in the feather eiderdown, felt very small and vulnerable and, though she hesitated to admit as much, lonely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beej?” If she let the meaner part of herself take over again, she wouldn’t forgive herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you stay with me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha—sure. I guess.” He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, awkward as all hell, like he didn’t really know what to do in the face of obvious pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion of her spent emotions leaving her feeling completely drained. She didn’t feel safe—not in the context of the Games—but somehow having him near her soothed the ragged edges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she mumbled as she began to fall asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could vaguely hear him respond, but the words didn’t register; she was falling too deep. Part of her hoped he would still be there when she woke. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Wildest Dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>She won't let herself fall.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey y'all--</p><p>I felt like we all needed some shippy escapism today, and so I really wanted to put that out here for y'all. I have little faith in writing smut outside of RP so lets see how this goes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She woke to soft snoring. Beetlejuice was curled up next to her, his arm loosely wrapped around her waist. She shifted a little; his arm was dead weight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was enough to startle him awake from whatever night terror he was having, coming to with wild eyes and hand gestures that would be far more threatening if they weren’t empty. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia placed a hand on his chest, where his heart was beating rapidly under pale skin. “Beej, it’s okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right here. In bed. With me.” Though there was nothing sexual about their current arrangement, little spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked, his brown eyes loosing a bit of that terror she had seen. “Right. Okay.” He rubbed his fingers on his temples, grimacing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hungover?” Lydia asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like you wouldn’t believe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushed back the silk bedsheets and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. “Drink this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. “Need my flask.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crossing her arms over her chest, Lydia shot him an incredulous glance. “Promise me this: stay coherent enough to keep me alive when I’m in the arena. I don’t care how you do it, just be there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His expression softened. “Anything for you, babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words were so unexpectedly sweet that Lydia was taken aback. Beetlejuice had hinted that he cared for her as more than just a lay last night. But this—he sounded, for lack of a better word, besotted. She shook her head at her own internal monologue. Surely she was being ridiculous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood up, reaching for the wardrobe on the other side of the room. Somehow, despite the fact that he had seen her naked two nights ago, she felt oddly self conscious about him seeing her in her underwear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better get moving if we want to be on time,” she said, scanning the options for something functional in black. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice made no move to hide the fact that he was staring at her ass. “Mmm I think you should come back to bed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, okay, I’ll skip out on my required training to spend </span>
  <em>
    <span>quality time</span>
  </em>
  <span> with my mentor, I’m sure the Capitol will take that well.” Her sarcasm was biting but that did nothing to deter him, as he hopped out of bed and walked over to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned her towards him, caressing the side of her face with gentleness before giving her a searing kiss. The way his lips on hers did things to her—she shivered at the sensation, heat at her core and butterflies in her stomach. How he could leave her desperate and aching for more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they paused to take a breath he growled in her ear, “Are you sure I can’t persuade you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After,” she gasped. “Training first, then after…” she trailed off but they both knew what she meant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave her one last, lingering kiss that left her head spinning. When he pulled away she stumbled a little, dizzy and drunk on him, rather than liquor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After,” he agreed. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia struggled to focus all day, her mind always returning to Beetlejuice as she made her way through the compulsory exercises. She knew it was stupid. She knew it was dangerous. But the unfulfilled ache between her legs overrode the rational side of her brain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as they were dismissed for the day, out like a shot, headed straight for the penthouse. When she arrived, long before Vince had even made his way to the elevator, their escort, Tina, was nowhere to be found. Only BJ was there, sitting on the couch and sipping from his flask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia grabbed his hand and dragged him towards her room, shutting the door behind them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, babes, where’s fire?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scowled. “You know damn well where, you bastard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raised an eyebrow at that and snickered. “Didja get hot and bothered this morning, Princess?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what you did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grinned. “I do. I just wanna hear you say it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asshole.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am. Still wanna hear you say it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” she snapped. “I want you, okay, Beej?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That sly grin hadn’t left his face. “Want me to what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to fuck me senseless, okay?!” She could tell by the heat she could feel in her face that she was likely bright red as she admitted this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took steps towards her, wrapping his arm around her waist. His breath was warm against her neck as he whispered, “And I will. But I’m gonna take my time with ya.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pressed a soft kiss to her neck and she melted, biting her lip to keep herself from moaning aloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, babes,” he said between lingering kisses, “I want to hear ya.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His teeth lightly scraped the skin of her neck and she couldn’t hold herself back any longer, moaning softly at the sensation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his hands moving north from her waist to cup her breasts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beej—“ Her nipples were hard and aroused and his touch, even through her bra and the cotton of her shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She broke the touch, turning around to press herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him down into a kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tongue slipped into her mouth, deepening the kiss and she pressed her body against the hardness she could feel in his pants, rubbing to create a friction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patience, babes,” he said as they pulled apart for a brief moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pouted. “You’re hardly patient.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I should have been, that night in the garden. But I wanted ya so bad—I just couldn’t help myself. Now,” he took her head and led her to the bed. “I get to take my time with ya.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he did, undressing her slowly and lavishing her bare skin with his touch and his tongue, until she lay beneath him completely naked, desperate for more than a few kisses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beej,” she gasped as he planted kisses along her thighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” He said, inspecting her pale form and taking in its beauty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He parted her legs. “Not yet,” he said, taking that moment to press his tongue against her throbbing clit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cried out in pleasure and he took that as the encouragement it was, working his mouth on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia had never felt a wanting this intense before—every touch, every kiss, seared into her nerves in the best possible way. And it kept building, like a tightly taut bowstring, but not yet snapping. She needed—oh how she needed—that release, in a way that she had never needed anything in her life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s my girl,” Beetlejuice murmured, pausing to take a breath, only to return to lavishing her with his attentions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she could hold back no more—the pleasure breaking over her as she trembled with the force of it, crying out before biting into the skin of her hand to muffle the sound. She came back to earth panting, her body spent from his touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice’s grin was feral as he surfaced. “Can’t have ya givin’ out on me now, babes. Not when there’s so much I want to do to ya.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brushed back a few stray curls that were stuck to her forehead with sweat. “Shouldn’t I return the favor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Not now. This—-this is about ya, babes.” With that his fingers made their way to her entrance. “If yer all right with that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she gasped, surprised at how much she wanted more, even though she had given herself completely to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Two fingers plunged deep inside her and in a motion she couldn’t describe, just feel, he twisted the position of his fingers in such a way that they made her come again in an instant, throwing her head back and unable to hold back her cries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How….?” She was near incoherent as she struggled to form thoughts, words, anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Practice.” With one hand still working her, he used the other to remove his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wore his vices on his body, in a way, with a roundness to his form that was so unlike the lean, angular types that she went to school with. And somehow, she found his body far preferable to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here,” she said, and with reluctance, he slipped his fingers out of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She threw her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, pressing kisses to his neck, to his collarbone, small love bites here and there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm Lyds.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” She whispered, breathless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothin’, yer just so beautiful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes, and pressed her lips against his, running her fingers through his short brown hair, deepening the kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pausing for breath, she gasped in his ear, “please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If ya insist,” he murmured back, nibbling her neck and catching one of her earlobes in his sharp teeth. She disentangled her legs so that he could shuck off his pants and underwear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On top of me,” he said, and she nodded, straddling him with her thighs. And with a little practice, mounting him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groaned as she grinded against him, his hands reaching out to cup her breasts. She arched her back as her pleasure built, his mouth catching hers in another searing kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their lovemaking was passionate if not sloppy, building in a frenzy of moans and kisses, sweat and the tightening of muscles against silk sheets. She felt herself reaching her peak, her body tensing and releasing against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lyds, I’m gonna—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She understood, pulling herself off him and onto the bed as he came into his hand, grunting with pleasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked sheepish as he finished. “Sorry. I just, uh, don’t want to….” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Lydia knew that being intimate with her mentor brought multiple risks; being pregnant in the arena was one thing neither of them could dare allow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna, uh, clean up,” he muttered, taking off towards the bathroom where Lydia heard the water running. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was the part that was less than romantic—the come down from the high of being with him, her body sticky. She felt even more vulnerable now than she did in the heat of the moment, and she stood up, reaching into the wardrobe for something to cover herself in. She pulled out a black silky nightdress, and pulled it over her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Beej said, entering the bedroom once again. “I like yer better naked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia crossed her arms over her chest, embarrassed. “I was cold.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let me warm ya up, babes.” He sat back down into the bed and pulled her into his arms, wrapping the feather quilt around them both. “Is this better?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She giggled. “I suppose.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pressed a kiss to the side of her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you usually end up cuddling with your conquests?” She tried to keep her tone light but there was a hint of bitterness to her words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes ya think yer my conquest?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything about you.” Lydia rolled her eyes.“You are what my mother would refer to as a ‘rake’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rake, hmmm? Scoundrel? Up to no good?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All of the above.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guilty, I guess. But would yer believe me if I said ya were different?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia felt her heart flutter at his words and she pinched herself to keep herself grounded. There was no use getting attached to him, not now. Maybe, if she survived. But now, in this moment, she had to live by the hour. In the arena, she would have to live by the minute, or even the second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see how I could be,” she said, finally, her words slow and careful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Remind me to explain to ya someday,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I make it out alive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached out, cupping her chin with his hands and meeting his golden honey eyes with her dark ones. “When yer make it out alive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. When Your World Starts Crashing Down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Tell me how you won your Games."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello loves! </p><p>I know this is a very niche story but I'm not gonna lie it's probably one of my favorites (right up there with a Mileven fic on my other account). I just have so much fun diving deep into this world and still holding onto the things that make Lydia and Beej themselves regardless.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The final day of training exercises wasn't training at all—each boy and girl tribute was expected to show some sort of skill in front of the Gamemakers and would be scored accordingly. Nerves did little to diminish Lydia’s appetite as she filled her plate with seconds at breakfast that morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vince, by contrast, was some shade of green. Beetlejuice, meanwhile, was trying to shake off a hangover, and the remnants of the previous nights’ activities—having snuck into Lydia’s bed for a few hours both were struggling to cover up yawns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hasn’t intended for things to turn out this way but something about him had her risking discovery for a few stolen moments. And there was something delicious about keeping such a secret. She figured that none of it really mattered anyway, given that she would likely be dead in a few days. So if she could take her pleasure hidden in corners and in late hours of the evening, she would. It was just physical, she told herself. There was no use getting attached to him, given her circumstances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia had no idea what Vince had discussed with Beej, though in the early morning hours she and her disheveled mentor had decided her strategy should be to use her skills on the obstacle course to her advantage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer want to aim for something like a 7, score wise,” he had said. “High enough that yer not a complete wash but low enough that there isn’t a target on yer back. Think you can manage, babes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s my girl.” He had pressed a light kiss to her forehead and she pulled away, feigning exhaustion. Lust was one thing—this, entirely another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, as she made her way to the training room, anxiety left her with a lump in her throat. There were so many moments she could disassociate from her reality, as though this was a film happening to a character called Lydia Deetz, not to her. This was not one of those moments; this was all too real. She was preparing to kill or be killed. There was a long, gray hallway where tributes waited for their name to be called in District order: boys first, then girls. Lydia stole a glance at Makenzie, who gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. She wanted to sit next to her friend but it wouldn’t be allowed. And she figured she might as well get used to detaching herself from everyone and everything soon enough. She just hoped that she wouldn’t see Makenzie die, and vice versa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia wasn’t sure if there was any sort of God, but if there was, He owed her at least that much. 1, 2, 3, 4. Lydia watched the Career tributes swagger into the room with confidence only their privilege could provide—the security of a full belly and a roof over their head and unlimited weapons training. Lydia knew she was better off than most anyone in District 12 given her father’s position but even that paled in comparison to the perks the Career tributes got. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention the scandal that occurred when her father married her mother to begin with. For a District native to marry one of the Covey was rarely heard of; the Covey oft kept to themselves and they were seen as lesser than, even more so than the miners. Lydia herself had been no stranger to this as the result of their union—the whispers, the muttered insults like “half breed” as she passed, said quietly enough for plausible deniability. Now more than ever, she missed her mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother who played fiddle and sang her Covey lullabies, who had a bright imagination and wore even brighter colors. Lydia never felt lonely when her mother was around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shook her head, trying to empty her mind of the thoughts. Grief would only distract her from what she needed to do today. She vaguely registered Vince being called, and took a few deep breaths, trying to focus on what she had planned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then it was her turn. The Gamemakers seemed wine drunk; the punch bowl from their feast significantly depleted. She tried to ignore the anger building; being impulsive would do her no good here. Instead, she scrambled to the obstacle course, completing the course swiftly, her feet barely touching the ground as she swung around equipment with ease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Were this any other circumstance she would enjoy herself immensely. She glanced over at the Gamemakers; there was no reaction on their end. She sighed, backing up to clear enough floor space. She was going to have to pull out all the gymnastics tricks that gave her father heart palpitations. Backflips, front flips, cartwheels, flip-flops. She even threw in a one handed cartwheel for good measure, grateful that her small frame made it easier for her to throw her body around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She straightened herself up and risked a glance at the Gamemakers. A few were nodding in approval; the rest seemed spaced out or drugged out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took a deep breath. This was all the consideration they could give her, when she was being sent out to die? She was nothing more than an object to them, even lower than that. A speck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took all of her self control not to start throwing things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she left the room fuming without a backwards glance. Score be damned. None of it mattered anyway. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“How can they just watch this over and over, and see as nothing more than objects?” Lydia ranted, pacing back and forth in her bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice sat on the bed, taking a pull from his flask. “Yer nothin’ to them, sweetheart. Casualty of war.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t even alive for the Rebellion! Why am I paying the price of my ancestors?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>BJ shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia muttered something in the Covey language under her breath, words that her mother had definitely not taught her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer cute when yer mad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That earned Beetlejuice a throw pillow to the face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I could just….take off. Run away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where, Lyds? District 13?” He chuckled at his own dark joke. District 13 was nothing more than ash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know!” She snapped, stopping her pacing. “Somewhere.” She paused. “How did you do it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Win your Games.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He downed the rest of his flask in one go. “I’m gonna need a hell of a lot more liquor to talk about that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia sat on the bed next to him. “Tell me. Please?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a pretty story, Lydia.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had never called her Lydia before, only babes or occasionally Lyds, and she could see how his eyes darkened, an expression she could not quite read. “I’m not a good person.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I knew that,” she said sarcastically, hoping to lighten the mood, but her joking tone fell flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. “You don’t understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I won’t know what to do unless you tell me.” She knew she was whining and she hated it, but she couldn’t help herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood up, swaying from drink as he did so. “What do you want to hear?” He roared with an anger Lydia had never seen before, that seemed to take possession of his whole body. “That I slit throats while they slept so I didn’t have to look them in the face while I killed them? That part of me fucking enjoyed it? That I’m a monster?” His skin was flushed and his breath reeked of liquor as he screamed, his body shaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia held herself together, forcing herself to look him in the eyes. She had to be brave, even if she was cracking within. “You’re my monster,” she said simply, and something within her crumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walked past him and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. He couldn’t see her like this, and she wouldn’t let herself cry until she was already in the shower, sitting on the white tile floor, sobbing her heart out. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>She woke up with a pounding headache, her dreams filled with all kinds of horror. Eventually he had left her room and she had not come out for dinner, preferring to curl up under a feather comforter, every part of her aching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But her hunger betrayed her and the smell of food was too much to bare. So she stepped out into the penthouse, not caring that she looked a mess. Tonight was the tribute interviews so she would be made over head to toe regardless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice wasn’t at the table, just Miss Argentina and Vince, the former rising upon Lydia’s entrance, to embrace her and give her a kiss on the cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Congratulations, mija!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Miss Argentina smelled like strong perfume and Lydia wrinkled her nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On your score, silly! You got a ten, that’s beyond our expectations for District Twelve.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia rolled her eyes at the backhanded compliment. “Uh, thanks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It struck her that she was being congratulated on her ability as a predator, and she quickly busied herself with the food. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now for tonight, there will be preparation for you both with me and Mr. Shoggoth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About what?” Vince asked in his morose way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With me, it will be aesthetics. How to present yourself. With Lawrence it will be interview content. How to get the audience to adore you so you can win sponsors of course!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia swallowed a mouthful of coffee and she swore she could hear Miss Argentina mutter under her breath about Beetlejuice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bright eyed companion glanced at Lydia. “You will be with me first. And we’re going to need all the time we can get to turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. She was exhausted and not in the mood to listen to more exposition on how the people of District Twelve were practically savages—and these Capitol people didn’t even know about her Covey blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood up, pushing her chair back. “Well, this sow’s ear will be in her room,” she said, punctuating the end of her sentence with a belch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning on her heels she ignored whatever scandalized mutterings were behind her, slamming her door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew, of course, that she would have to give a lavish apology for her rudeness and she would have to face Beetlejuice again. But for now, she relished in her misbehavior. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The four hours with Miss Argentina weren’t as terrible as she feared. She did have to give a ridiculous apology for her exit from breakfast but found that if she just tuned out all the silly Capitol chatter and focused solely on the task at hand, she felt less inclined to smash things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She certainly had to work on focusing as she practiced gliding in high heels and ball gowns, balancing a book on top of her head for impeccable posture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As stupid as she looked (and felt) she knew that whatever helped her earn sponsors was needed. Especially when her mentor was hardly coherent on a good day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a break for lunch she was told to report to Beetlejuice’s room for interview coaching. She took a deep breath, holding her head high. She would play arrogant. He couldn’t see that he had hurt her last night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice was sitting on a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. His stubble indicated it had been a minute since he had shaved, and he was wearing the same wrinkled clothes he wore yesterday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like hell,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feel like hell,” he mumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She placed her hands on her hips. “Well the last time I checked you weren’t the one being prepped for slaughter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t remind me,” he muttered darkly, reaching for his flask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snatched the flask out from under him. “Focus, Beej. I need sponsors. I’m not in the mood for your tortured soul act today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gimme that.” His reflexes were clumsy and she kept it out of reach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you show me what to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” He spat, giving her a resentful look. “Look, babes, this whole thing is a big fuckin show. Yer gotta stick out in some way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “So how do we want to play it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a long look at her up and down. “Yer too skinny to be sexy, at least for this audience. Me, I think yer beautiful but these rich fucks somethin’ else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m the Mayor’s daughter….” she said, thinking out loud. “My mother is gone. Maybe some kind of tragic backstory?” The words made her feel sick inside, and she wondered if her grandmother had felt the same way, being paraded for the cameras. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>BJ shook his head. “Too generic. Every other District kid is an orphan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Covey,” she offered. “And my grandmother was a Victor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded with approval. “That’s better. Did you know her?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. That doesn’t matter, though, does it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not if you keep it vague.” He scratched the back of his head. “They never told us there was another Victor from District Twelve, not officially.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. But my stylist seemed to know her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would keep it vague, then. Best for everyone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She handed him back his flask. “You better keep it together, Beej. I’ll—I’m gonna need you in the arena.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t like to admit need, but she couldn’t deny the truth. Anything else, though, was firmly off the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia would go to grave without him knowing that she needed him in so many more ways than just as a mentor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A knock at the door let her know that the stylist team had arrived for their torture—she meant make over—before the presentation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let them in.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Her dark hair was washed and styled into finger waves, shiny and adorned with pearl haircombs. Make-up applied to draw attention to her lips and eyes, with dark shadow and red lipstick. And her dress—Lydia actually fell in love with the dress Tigris had selected for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem to favor black,” the stylist had noted, “So I took a little inspiration.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ball gown was not black itself, rather a wine-red decorated with black pearls and crystals that glimmered across the wide, petal like skirt. Her shoulders were exposed in flutter sleeves, and what little cleavage she had was accentuated by a sweetheart neckline and delicate black pearl jewelry. Despite the ugliness of the occasion, she felt beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you Tigris,” Lydia said. “I feel like a Princess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She would be proud of you,” the stylist said, and Lydia blinked in confusion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the grizzled older woman said no more, whisking them away to a hired motorcar, where the rest of Panem waited for her. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Runaway</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Don't say it."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hello i'm sorry it takes me so long to get shit together. I don't mean to not have my shit together but having a chronic illness is a full time job. </p><p>A full time job that makes me forget what my plans were for this arena rip </p><p>Either way, I hope you enjoy I love you all!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As soon as she set foot into the studio, Lydia noticed that Beej couldn’t keep his eyes off her. It wasn’t just the obvious lust that was well known with his reputation. No—there was tenderness in his expression, an affection she dare not name. To do so would be unbearably painful, given the circumstances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grabbed him by the wrist as she floated past, drawing him in to hiss into his ear, “get that expression off your face,” before returning to her place near the end of the line as the girl from Twelve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spotted Makenzie in the line, in a pretty purple formal dress, her eyelids covered in shimmer and her brown hair curled into lovely ringlets that spilled down her back. Lydia wanted to reach out and reassure her friend, who looked a little shaky, but she knew that such a display of friendship would be considered unusual and possibly paint a target on both their backs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia considered the line up of teens in front of her, all dressed up in outfits finer than many would have known back in the Districts. This  animosity felt so manufactured. If they weren’t pitted against each other for survival, Lydia was certain that she had more in common with some of her fellow tributes than she could know in this moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took her place in line, Vince falling in behind her. He wore a polished black tux but his skin took on a pale green tinge. Nerves, likely, but Lydia hoped he wouldn’t vomit all over her dress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look lovely,” he said in his usual maudlin tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Vince.” She wracked her brain trying to think of a way to return the compliment. “You look, um, sharp.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though they were in the same grade, Lydia hadn’t spent much time with Vince. She preferred to keep her own company, and being half Covey and a Mayor’s daughter, some of her classmates made sure that she only had herself for company. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that snuck up on her as she looked Vince over: he would almost certainly be dead in a few days, if not tomorrow, during the Bloodbath. The thought made her feel hollow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was all so pointless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, she could be dead tomorrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And no matter how much she tried to shake the thought, she couldn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much so that she felt disconnected from all the tribute interviews until she was being nudged into the wings, her time next. As if by magic, Beej appeared next to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yer stunnin’ babes,” he murmured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not in the mood,” she snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He backed off and the applause started, her name being called by Caesar Flickerman, in his signature blue suit with twinkling lights. This year Caesar’s hair was dyed a pale blue, and he had the manic energy of someone who most definitely was not sober. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome, welcome, Miss Deetz,” he said, bounding towards her and pulling her into a plush chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This audience was larger than Lydia had ever known, in the rare few times she had to put in an official appearance with her father to be broadcast. And yet as far as she was concerned, they were wooden props. They didn’t exist, except as an illusion. Instead, she kept her focus on Flickerman, addressing him and only him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, my dear, I must say you look ravishing. Hats off to your stylist!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about the word ravishingly felt horribly inappropriate given where she was, but Lydia gave her best fake laugh. “Why thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So tell us about yourself, Lydia Deetz from District 12.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia smoothed her skirts. “Well, my father is the Mayor. And my mother, well, she passed away last year.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flickerman made a little cluck of sympathy. “I am so sorry. What a tragedy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. She wouldn’t let them into her private grief, not ever, but she made sure the camera saw her dab at her eyes. “I consider myself lucky that I’m her daughter. She gave me strength, and truly the gift of the strange and unusual.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother was Covey. They’re not from Twelve, not really. Travelers and musicians, who settled in the District during the war.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And her mother, my grandmother, competed in the Games herself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia nodded. “She was a Victor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Flickerman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Your grandmother was a Victor?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Lucy Gray Baird won the Tenth Games.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interesting,” Flickerman murmured. “Did she tell you about her Games? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that years Games rebroadcasted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sadly, no. She died before I was born. But I imagine she was strong, and resourceful. A fighter. And I imagine she passed that strength from my mother to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How poetic. Well, Miss Deetz, let it be known that our hearts are with you and your legacy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Caesar.” A buzzer sounded and Lydia stood up. She presented her hand to shake but much to her surprise, he kissed the top of her palm before sending her on her way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia tried her best to hide the disgust on her face. Somehow any man other than Beetlejuice touching her felt wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she slipped through the wings and to the backstage area, something crumpled inside her. Still, she held her head high as Vince went through his interview, as Miss Argentina congratulated her on the car ride back to the Tribute Center. It wasn’t until she slammed her bedroom door shut that she allowed herself to sink to the plush floor, a wail of despair escaping her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cried until her head pounded. Beyond the walls of the penthouse the Capitol citizens were feasting and drinking to celebrate the Games, and she, seventeen years old, was being faced with the reality of her untimely demise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She vaguely heard knocking but ignored it, only picking herself up off the floor until she had no more tears left. Unzipping her dress she left the beautiful thing in a corner, grabbing a pair of soft pajamas and washing the layers of make up off her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew she had to sleep. That being well rested could make the difference between life and death in the arena. Yet, adrenaline coursing through her veins made her bed seem less than appealing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wanted to be back in the garden, that first night with Beetlejuice. Maybe the flowers would calm her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she opened her bedroom door, she found herself face to face with her bedraggled mentor. His eyes were glassy with drink, swaying on his feet a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lydia,” he said. He sounded so utterly broken that her own heart shattered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beej,” she said, falling into his arms. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>They didn’t make love. Maybe she should have, as her last few moments on earth, something pleasant to remember. But she didn’t want just pleasure between the sheets, not now. She wanted to be held close, breathing in his scent and hearing his heartbeat in tandem to her own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands were in her hair, combining through the black waves. He glanced over at her with such sweetness she felt as though her heart would burst. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lydia,” he started, and she pressed a finger to his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew what he wanted to say, especially given that he wasn’t calling her “babes”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t spoil it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I have to—i—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” she said, desperation in her tone. “I can’t go into the arena with that on me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His golden eyes tried to comprehend the meaning of her words. “I don’t understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we turn this into….more than what it is, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to walk into the Stockyard,” she said. It was too raw and although she thought she was done crying, there was a lump in her throat that refused to go away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Babes….” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Beej,” she murmured. “Just hold me, for tonight, okay? The rest….what will happen will happen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right,” he acquiesced. She knew he was itching to push back but the alcohol was making his eyes droop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hummed a song, a Covey lullaby her mother used to sing her when she was sick. Something about meadows. And despite the fact that she didn’t want to sleep, her eyes grew heavy until she could fight the urge no longer. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>She woke up shaking and alone. From her bathroom she could hear the sounds of retching, and a toilet flushing. Beetlejuice hadn’t left in the night after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood up, dizzy. There were plain clothes laid out for her; she would receive her clothing for the arena down in the area where tributes were prepped. For now, all she had to do was get dressed and make her way down to the hangar, where she would formally part with her mentor. Only Tigris would accompany her to the Stockyard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pounded on the bathroom door. “Come on, Beej, we’re gonna be late.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grumbling, he pulled himself together and they headed down the elevator in near silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything I need to know?” She asked as the doors opened and the hangar with a hovercraft looked before them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Run as soon as the gong sounds. Don’t get in the middle of that mess. Try to find water. You’re smart, kid. Got a good head on your shoulders. Stay alive, yer hear?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can do.” Her knees were shaking as they walked. And then they were in front of the hovercraft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew she couldn’t kiss him goodbye, or show anything other than mentor-tribute decorum. He gave her a quick squeeze, nothing more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get ‘em babes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try,” she replied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he was being ushered away and she was trying desperately to commit every part of him to memory. His scent, the sound of his voice, the way he walked. Blinking back tears she boarded the hovercraft, desperate for a familiar face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took a seat next Makenzie, who was very pale, gripping the edge of her seat until her knuckles turned white. A Capitol woman in white made her way past each tribute, injecting their forearm with a large hyperdermic needle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia grimaced at her turn, frowning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your tracker,” the woman said curtly, before moving onto Makenzie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shortly after, the hovercraft door closed and the lights darkened. Under the cover of the dim lights Lydia reached for her friend’s hand, squeezing it tight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t let go until they landed thirty minutes later, the lights coming back and the blinding sun filtering in. Lydia got a brief glimpse of Vince as he was lead away by Peacekeepers; the expression on his face betrayed his terror. She wanted to reassure him, but there was nothing left within her to do so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she numbly followed Tigris’ lead, down the underground maze of rooms. She would be the only tribute to use her room. The arenas were preserved as tourist attractions after the Games, a practice that turned her already sour stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She managed to sip some water as Tigris laid out what she was going to wear in the arena. Tan pants, made of some sturdy material. A gray shirt, solid, plain undergarments. And a jacket that seemed to have some sort of camouflage element, a light water repellent feature to the fabric. Wool knitted socks and solid boots, the kind that reminded Lydia of the coal miners back in Twelve. Her dark hair was too short to be braided back but Tigris took her time in brushing it, tying it back into two small pigtails with elastics. A clock in the bare, sterile room reminded Lydia of the few minutes she had left. She glanced up at the older woman, wondering how many tributes she had sent off to die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your token,” Tigris said, handing Lydia a small silver compact, carved with a rose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was my mother’s,” Lydia said. “She said it was her mother’s.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tigris threw a glance at the camera in the corner, monitoring their every move. “I know it well,” she growled in a low voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha—how?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know the person who gave it to your grandmother,” Tigris replied simply. A mechanical voice reminded them that they had five minutes to launch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia gulped, nausea making her head swim. There was a real, deep fear at knowing what she faced, yet at the same time, the odd sense of freedom in the knowledge that she had little control over her situation. She could be dead in an hour and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She gripped the compact, and then slipped it into her jacket pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Tigris,” she murmured. “For everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older woman nodded, and led Lydia to the lift that would take her to her plate in the arena. Giving her a quick squeeze of the hand, she said, “Remember where you come from.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Lydia was on the platform and the glass was coming down around her. She tried to breathe, tried to think, but the only thing she could register was the way her pulse thrummed at her wrist and sweat gathered under her arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And before she knew it, she found herself being lifted into the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ladies and gentlemen, let the 62nd Annual Hunger Games begin!” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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